


Kick up your Heels

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: Choose Your Own Adventure [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Consensual Sex, M/M, Marriage Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-01-31 15:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21448246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: There aren’t many things that can surprise Tobirama after having lived a life steeped in political intrigue and war. This though, this takes him aback. To bring the invaluable Inoshikachō alliance into their ranks, Konoha is expected to provide tangible reassurance that the Senju and Uchiha will not rise up against each other again. Their proposed solution…a marriage hunt between the Senju heir and a member of the Uchiha main line.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: Choose Your Own Adventure [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593334
Comments: 52
Kudos: 638





	1. Tobirama

**Author's Note:**

> These are completed chapters from a **Choose Your Own Adventure** event I've been hosting over on Tumblr.

The chill of early morning frost numbs Tobirama’s toes and sends a wave of gooseflesh up his legs. He knows that as soon as the sun rises the exertion of running will warm him. However, that fact doesn’t help him now, not when he’s dressed in little more than a yukata so thin it’s translucent and standing bare-legged in the breeze. He clenches his jaw, arms crossed firmly over his chest, and prays that the posture passes as his typical reticence and not the desperate need to conserve body heat that it is.

Judging by Madara’s derisive snort next to him, his façade isn’t entirely effective.

“If everyone is prepared and present, shall we begin?” Yamanaka Inomiki asks, stiff-backed and formal in the way of her clan.

If Tobirama was capable of even a shred of good will right now, he would admire her resolve, standing before the four most powerful shinobi in all of Fire Country and pressing her demands without balking. She’s a handsome woman, bearing thick loops of scar tissue around her neck and an easy, natural grip on the handle of the kanabō at her waist.

This is obviously not the clan head’s first flanking maneuver.

At her back, Nara Shikashizu and Akimichi Chōjō represent the remaining clans of the honorable Inoshikachō alliance. If any other clan had responded to Konoha’s overtures of peace by demanding a tangible reassurance that the flames of war between the Senju and Uchiha were well and truly banked, Tobirama would have urged his brother to deny them entry on principle alone. The village founded by Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara is not one to be disrespected and to demand the reinstitution of marriage hunts—between the Senju and Uchiha main lines no less—is absurd.

But, the Alliance is strong and brings with it a sundry of trade-routes, land claims, and allies within Fire Country. To deny them would have far-reaching consequences, the likes of which Tobirama doesn’t particularly care to consider. Comparatively, marrying one of the Uchiha brothers is a small price to pay.

That it’s Madara who has stepped up makes it even easier.

“We’re ready. Go ahead,” Madara answers for them all as Hashirama settles a large hand on his shoulder. 

“Yeah. Sometime before we freeze our balls off would be nice,” Izuna mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Tobirama to hear. As if he’s the one out here on a late Autumn morning, barefoot and mostly unclothed. The little prick.

Nodding graciously, Inomiki clasps her hands before her and motions for Shikashizu to bring forth the proposal contract. “Very well. Who among you will argue the claim for hunter’s rights?” Shikashizu silently unfurls the scroll and holds it out to be sealed in blood at the bottom.

Not unsurprisingly, it’s Madara who brashly waves off Hashirama’s tightening grip and shoulders his way forward. “As clan head of the Uchiha, I claim hunter’s rights by merit of my position.”

Funny how he recalls the ritual words perfectly despite Konoha not even having physical records on the topic. With his mother being a Hatake, Tobirama would know them in his sleep, but Madara?

Tobirama’s eyes narrow. 

Though the less-than-subtle machinations don’t go unremarked, he’ll allow Madara this small concession, knowing it’s impossible for him to challenge the claim from a position of equal authority. Though he’s heir apparent to the Senju clan, it’s not a title that holds weight.

Too, this ridiculous man has obviously spoken to someone at length regarding the give and take of marriage hunts. Well, at least the ‘take’. Tobirama rolls his eyes. He’d be offended by the assumption of being automatically relegated to the role of the hunted if bloated arrogance didn’t suit Madara so well.

“Fine,” he snaps, eager to get on with whatever the hell is going to warm him up the fastest, be it a day long sprint or Madara’s furnace-hot body moving over him.

“Fine?” Madara repeats, looking over his shoulder, brow raised in surprise at Tobirama’s easy acceptance.

It’s not like it will be a hardship. They’ll fuck in the forest like they already do on occasion—when tensions are high and their blood runs hot—and carry on as if it’s nothing out of the ordinary. While they’ll be unable to marry another over the course of their lifetime, Tobirama doesn’t think being spouses on paper will change either of their lives all that significantly.

Madara’s shock passes as quickly as it came, soon replaced with the same lopsided grin he wears in battle.

“It’s good to see you so eager to take my name,” he drawls, all cunning and fire-bright challenge. “Uchiha Tobirama.” A pause as he tastes the sounds and finds them to be to his liking. “It does have a certain appeal, doesn’t it? And you’d look so pretty with an Uchiwa on your back. It’d be a perfect match for your markings, wouldn’t it, koibito?” He turns back to the Nara clan head and perfunctorily splits his thumb on the elongated spike jutting out from the scroll’s handle.

“Here, please, Uchiha-sama,” Shikashizu says, offering a brush to collect the slow drip of blood, then indicating a line towards the bottom.

While Madara busies himself signing his name to the document, Tobirama seethes with all the frigid holdings of an ice floe.

Uchiha Tobirama.

The chill of the morning fails to compare to the fury seeping down through his shivering legs and making him fall still. Not even his Anija’s muttered warning or the promise of a strong alliance is enough to waylay his indignation.

Konoha will crumble before he bows under the Uchiha name. That’s not what this hunt is about, though he should have expected Madara’s cleverness in this moment of vulnerability, fox that he is. Even being brash and unerringly blunt, there has always been a part of him that is very much akin to Izuna—sly and devastating.

Tobirama wants nothing more than to shove his stupidly handsome face in the dirt. Instead, he takes a deep, bracing breath and returns the obvious challenge.

“It may be your name signed on the hunter’s claim, but I assure you, I won’t be the one adopting a new clan, Senju Madara,” Tobirama ripostes, smiling with far too many teeth. No matter who signs the document, the power dynamic will ultimately be decided by whomever is felled in the forest. This is his Anija’s domain, Tobirama won’t lose.

Madara whips around and glares at him balefully. 

With the rising sun at his back and his hair swaying like a swirl of ink, he looks like the second coming of Amaterasu. The scent of ash and allspice that is uniquely his flows up around them with each vicious lash of chakra before he manages to clench his fists and control his outburst.

“You wish,” he hisses through his teeth.

Maybe he does. It would be immensely satisfying to hold that kind of victory over Madara’s head. Arrogance may look good on him, but he’s also almost completely insufferable because of it. Tobirama would love to watch him fall.

His sharp smile rounds at the corners, softens into something a little more honest.

“Perhaps.”

Akimichi Chōjō exhales long and slow as he relaxes back into his position at Inomiki’s shoulder, the ceramic panels of his armor clinking together. Funny, Tobirama doesn’t even recall when the man took up a protective stance. As always, Madara demands too much of his attention to focus on lesser things.

“Ready for the count, Senju-sama?” Chōjō asks hesitantly, arching a thick eyebrow in question.

Another blast of cold wind whips through the trees and sets their leaves to howling. Tobirama’s heartbeat ratchets up as Madara continues to smolder in anticipation. Thanking every kami that it’s not Izuna staring him down with Sharingan red flickering at the corners of his eyes, Tobirama holds his head high.

“Yes. You may begin.”

Immediately, a soft chakra butterfly blooms in Chōjō’s palms and takes flight into the dawn. Delicate kanji counts down from one hundred on its wings, thrumming in a spectrum of oranges, yellows, and reds.

It’s lovely and silence falls as they all watch it rise in unison.

Of course, Madara can’t allow him even that single moment of respite. Frozen grass crunches under his feet as he approaches with all the inevitability of a forest fire. “You know you won’t be able to run from me for long,” he rumbles into the space between them. This close, he eases some of the bite from the morning air.

Everything about Uchiha Madara runs hot—his temperature, his temper, his passions. It’s intoxicating in the way all conflagrations are and burns just the same if you press too close. Tobirama supposes he should get used to the idea of being consumed by the blaze after today.

He leans closer under the guise of sharing a private word—breathes in deep. “Who says I’m going to run?”

There’s an instance of confusion where Madara’s head tilts and his lips part on a question. “What the hell else would you—wait, you think you can bring me down? _Seriously_, Senju?” He laughs, rich, deep, and entirely genuine. “You’re good, but I promise you’re not that good.”

Tobirama observes the light dusting of freckles and the color high on his cheeks. He’s going to so enjoy dragging this ridiculous man off of his pedestal. “We’ll see about that.”

“I can’t wait to see you try.”

The butterfly floats and bobs on the breeze, sparkling in their periphery. The shock of it makes Tobirama straighten from where he had unintentionally crowded into Madara’s space. Blinking quickly, he takes note of his Anija and Izuna standing stiffly and sharing Hashirama’s oversized haori on the knoll not ten paces away, and the three clan heads staring openly at their display.

Tobirama clears his throat and makes to back up a step, but Madara follows quickly, going so far as to run his hands over Tobirama’s shoulders and down the linen bracketing his half-exposed chest.

The chakra construct displays ten seconds.

“If you’re going to take me on, you had better prepare yourself to dance, Senju Tobirama,” Madara intones as he slides his palms down Tobirama’s chest and takes his wrists firmly in hand. Molten chakra begins to crackle and pop along all of the places they touch.

Eight seconds.

There’s something enticing about being the subject of his single-minded focus, this blazing intensity. Red begins to bleed in and swirl around his pupils and Tobirama wants nothing more than to dive in and study them. He’s never been allowed this close. Even when they sink into each other during their ill-advised trysts, it’s never face to face.

The cresting tide of chakra batters against his senses, blinding and so powerful it sets his own coils to pulsing. Beautiful. Consuming.

Five seconds.

As much as he would like to revel in the sensation, this is a marriage hunt, a political gambit. There will be time for introspection later, for now, he has a role to play.

Three seconds.

“I’ve been prepared to dance since that first day on the river. Come find me, Uchiha,” he says so quietly the words are nearly lost on the breeze.

Eyes-widening, Madara hesitates and the pressure on Tobirama’s wrists gives just enough to break the hold.

One.

In a blinding flash of light, Tobirama reaches out for one of the Hiraishin markers he placed in the forest so long ago—when the Flying Raijin had first been devised—and pulls with unwavering strength.


	2. Madara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such an intoxicating combination of defiance and capitulation all bound in one man. He’d be a liar to say it didn’t set his blood to boiling with a heady mix of anger and arousal each time. Still, Madara wishes that he could get his hands on him before the bastard Hiraishins away for once.

Madara hisses and rubs at his eyes to dispel the afterimage of Tobirama’s jutsu. Damn the contrary Senju and his insistence on always having the last word. Such an intoxicating combination of defiance and capitulation all bound in one man. He’d be a liar to say it didn’t set his blood to boiling with a heady mix of anger and arousal each time. Still, Madara wishes that he could get his hands on him before the bastard Hiraishins away for once.

Madara sighs and tugs his too-small yukata to overlap as much of his chest as it will reach. 

This farce of a hunt will at least give him the opportunity to bind Tobirama in name if not completely in heart. That will come with time.

Tobirama can deny it all he wants, feckless idiot that he is, but they’ve been circling each other for quite a while now. Coming together like this was inevitable. While using a marriage hunt to do so wouldn’t have been his first choice—being afforded the opportunity to formally court would have been nice—it’s something he can work with.

“Madara!” Hashirama calls out as if his plodding footfalls weren’t warning enough.

A heavy arm drapes over his shoulders and pulls him up against Hashirama’s equally solid side. While he would typically screech and shove his friend’s excessively physical shows of affection up his ass, it’s really warm. Fire affinity aside, it’s as cold as the shinigami’s balls out here.

“What is it, Hashirama? I’m a little busy,” he scolds. Not that he makes to pull away. 

Hashirama looks down at him, expression oddly blank. “Yeah, I kinda gathered. Before you go,” he takes a second to chew his lip and looks off into the forest, “Tobi is my brother. My last brother. You’ll be good to him today, right?”

The question has Madara squirming in his own skin. He’s passionate as all Uchiha are and tries to be good to Tobirama on a regular basis. In his own way of course, not that his overtures are ever accepted at face value. Maybe it’s lost in translation.

Or maybe Tobirama is just a dick.

“As much as he’ll let me,” he mutters as he pulls away and rubs his arms viciously to tamp down the gooseflesh. Residual heat lingers along his back, making the air colder in comparison. Such a miserable start to what should shape up to be a rather pleasant day—running, dancing, pinning Tobirama against a tree. A more perfect line-up of events he couldn’t imagine.

“Don’t worry so much,” he adds, though it’s not entirely clear whether he’s trying to reassure Hashirama or himself. “It’ll all work out for the best.”

“I don’t doubt it, old friend.”

Closing his eyes against the sudden well of anticipation, Madara startles when a thick haori settles over his shoulders like the second coming of spring.

The old code calls for entrants to be all but bare during the hunt, buried deep in their skin with nothing between them when they finally fall together. This addition of thick cotton is tantamount to blasphemy, but so ungodly warm.

“Hashirama, I can’t,” Madara argues, already trying to shrug the coat off and failing miserably under the power of Hashirama’s disappointed pout. 

His bull-headed friend claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Sure you can! Tobi’s never been good with the cold, so you should get it to him quick,” he announces, turning to look towards the three clan heads as they patiently observe the unfolding of this absurd tableau. “I’m sure it’s fine. Right guys?”

There’s a slight uptick at the corner of Inomiki’s mouth, there and gone between breaths. “All is well, Hokage-sama. The hunter is traditionally allowed a gift to bestow,” she says, Akimichi Chōjō not bothering to hide his snort of amusement.

They’re completely full of shit, but Madara isn’t going to call them out on it, especially not when he can feel his hands for the first time in the past half hour and Hashirama’s smile shines brighter than the dawn. Such an unfairly beautiful family he’s about to have married into his clan.

“See? It’s fine.”

Shaking his head, Madara shoves his arms into the sleeves and gathers up Hashirama’s hands into his own. A soft squeeze.

“Thank you.” He says it in the context of the coat, knowing that Hashirama will understand his gratitude encompasses so much more. There’s a life-time of support tied up in those two simple words.

Softness around his eyes makes Hashirama look young again—a man in his prime with all the world stretching before him. His eyes glow green with chakra and Madara watches, enraptured as he closes the distance between them and plants a sweet, tingling kiss on his forehead.

“I look forward to having you as a brother,” he admits with an enigmatic smile, then abruptly rips his hands away to spin and kick Madara right on the ass. “Now get going you slug!”

“Better a slug than a child!” Madara hisses in return, staggering a step while trying to bury a laugh into his collar and failing miserably. Without further hesitation, he channels a vivid flush of chakra to his feet and takes off sprinting towards the tree line with fire in his soul and a lightness to his heart. Tobirama will be his partner and equal in all things. With Hashirama’s blessing no less.

The sun crests over the horizon in full, illuminating his path even as the trees seem to part before him.

An hour later, his good mood has soured significantly.

“This is bullshit,” he complains to a shuddering pile of leaves. Even with help from the mokuton that pervades the forest, he can’t seem to get a hold of Tobirama’s signature. Here one minute, gone the next. If Madara didn’t know any better, he’d say the bastard had recruited other shinobi to emulate his chakra pattern. However he’s managing to evade, Tobirama is too clever by far.

That being outsmarted has Madara licking his lips in eagerness probably suggests something deeply skewed about his character. He can’t help it, though. Tobirama is brilliant, and arresting, and so unbendingly strong in both personality and form. He’s a challenge that Madara, for all his power and military prowess, has never truly managed to conquer.

Despite the cold of the morning, his loins grow warm at the imagining.

Madara pinches the bridge of his nose.

The kami are surely laughing.

Pushing away from the bole of the tree, he shifts his weight in discomfort. There’s still oil from his morning preparations making his thighs tacky where they rub together. It’s a mild balm knowing that Tobirama, wherever he fucked off to, is in the same position. Still, it doesn’t exactly engender him to dragging this out any more than it already has been.

He cracks his neck and stretches the tension from shoulders. With his coils cleared, he casts out as wide of a net as he can, pushing his senses to the breaking point. Chakra calls to him from multiple points throughout the forest—animals, plants, he feels them all to some extent.

There.

Three banked signatures, tasting like a cool, deep draught of the Naka. It’s a flavor that he could easily get drunk off of if he allowed himself the opportunity. With a shuddering exhale, he wraps himself in the shadows of the trees and takes off towards the closest pulse, borrowed haori flapping wildly behind him. Branches whip past, faster, faster, until a bright clearing opens before him.

“You’re mine, Senju!” he crows at the first sight of a mop of haphazard white hair.

Tobirama watches him come, sitting primly on a fallen tree, legs crossed at the knee and hands resting placid and still on his thighs. He doesn’t give any indication of moving from where he’s comfortably wrapped in a sunbeam. “Took you long enough,” he quips with a lopsided smirk that just begs to be devoured.

Madara skids to a stop just shy of the tree line, wicked grin falling in increments. This is too easy. There must be some kind of trick to it or some trap he hasn’t accounted for. “The hell are you up to, Senju?” he mutters under his breath all the while flashing through a series of subtle hand signs within the oversized sleeves of his haori.

Somehow Tobirama hears him—maybe reads his lips with that red, raptor’s gaze—and cocks his head, entirely unimpressed. “Waiting for your supposed battle prowess to make an appearance. Obviously,” he drawls as if he’s not mostly nude, slick, and waiting to be won.

He languorously rises from the fallen tree and rearranges the folds of his yukata to cover the lithe body Madara knows is beneath. Muscular and lashed with scars from a life steeped in combat. He’s glorious. Frustratingly perfect in all the ways that matter.

Madara shouldn’t care for this obstinate, ice-pillar of a man, but he does. One glimpse of the passion in him, wrung out in the throes of pleasure that first time, and he was hooked. Wholly and irretrievably lost. Though he’s painfully aware that Tobirama still thinks of their heated intimacies as no more than a means for stress relief, he can’t help but hope for more. Hope for a husband in more than just title. 

He takes a deep, bracing breath and tries to strangle the urge to fly across the clearing and haul Tobirama down to the turf. It’s only moderately successful.

“I see your confidence is back,” he calls out, broaching the line between the shadow of the forest’s canopy and Tobirama’s sunlit glade. The phantom sensation of a gunbai against his back flares up strong and sharp as his fingers itch for its familiar weight.

Those narrowed eyes mean nothing but trouble.

“I wasn’t aware I had ever lost it,” Tobirama scoffs, resplendent in the easy sureness of his success. He softens his knees and whips his fists up in a stance that Madara has seen opposite his brother a thousand times over the years. 

That it’s now directed at him sets his heart to racing.

Cocky bastard. Knocking him down a peg is going to be magnificent.

Madara gathers chakra in his feet, half-crouches as his powerful thighs coil, and jettisons into the clearing in a burst of dirt and leaves. Air whips his hair out like a banner—a herald ready to be planted. The ground slams against his feet with the same staccato beat as his pulse. Then, suddenly, it opens up beneath him, a gaping maw with a suiton throat. Of course the clever bastard had something planned, Madara thinks as he falls into the shallow chasm. Frigid water lashes his arms across his chest and devours him up to the neck.

“Fire’s balls!” he roars loud enough to startle a flock of birds into flight.

“Hmm,” Tobirama hums, because he’s never been gracious in his victories against Madara no matter how small. “You always did rely too much on brute strength. Maybe your brother should have been chosen for the hunt in your stead. At least Izuna would have been able to manage a better showing than this. Disappointing, Uchiha.” He drags out Madara’s family name and tests the flavor of it, clearly finding it lacking.

Snorting, he waves off the whole affair and strides towards the tree line with an entirely unnecessary sway to his hips. Mud oozes in over the water’s surface and swirls around Madara’s neck until it solidifies into an unbreakable lid just beneath his chin.

“If you can manage to break the seal by nightfall, I’ll be impressed. Try not to sprain anything.”

By the Sage, Tobirama is a force of nature—wicked, and ferocious, and unforgiving in his wrath. Though he may not have the same sheer amount of chakra as Hashirama or Madara himself, he’s a pillar of power in his own right. Madara is half tempted to let him win this one on principle. But only half.

Clucking his tongue, his clone dissipates in a puff of smoke, allowing the doton jutsu to close together with a snap. Tobirama whips around and watches the hole close with shock written plainly on his face one second before Madara slams into his side, driving him into the forest floor with all of his not-insubstantial weight.

Grappling is one of the finest pleasures in life. And with his broad shoulders and low center of gravity, Madara was born to it.

Tobirama struggles to throw off the iron hold around his waist, fingers digging deep into slippery leaves and finding no purchase. He grunts at the ache and gnashes his teeth like a wild animal. Which is oddly fitting considering their position—Tobirama with his front pressed into the ground and Madara weathering the vicious bucking as he scrambles to find purchase on skin.

“Are you impressed?” he croons once he finally manages to get Tobirama’s throat pinned between his forearm and bicep in a hold that won’t be broken. He’s never been one for humility, there’s no reason for him to start the practice now.

“You bastard,” Tobirama chokes, “you stole my jutsu!”

A hot waft of breath as he huffs his amusement against Tobirama’s neck. “Shouldn’t leave your toys out were anyone can find them then, should you?” He sends up a prayer of thanks to Hagoromo for the blessed gift of the Sharingan.

“But we can argue about that later. Ready to take my name, Tobirama?”

“I’ll take something,” Tobirama snarls, and the sharp edge to his voice is a warning.

One Madara doesn’t deign to heed.

Taking a pale earlobe between his teeth, he suckles it gently, using his thighs to urge Tobirama’s apart. The slickness of smeared oil has the edges of their yukatas sticking fast to his buttocks—the only thing between Madara and everything he could ever want.

“Fuck, take it all,” he pants right up close, “I’m going to make you love me if it’s the last thing I do.”

It’s not a romantic ballad like Uchiha courting tradition demands, not anything close, but it’s the best he can come up with when his cock is filling quicker than it has since adolescence. Regardless, it’s enough to make Tobirama pause.

“I take exception to the fact that you think you can make me do anything,” he replies slowly and carefully, measuring each word. His voice comes out thin from the pressure, nothing like his typical commanding baritone. Still, there’s no confusing the power of his statement.

Madara shifts his grip to cradle Tobirama’s throat in his palm, not thinking about the inherent threat in the position, only trying to give him space to breathe without pulling away entirely. “Wha?” he mumbles as he plants a nomadic line of kisses along one broad, muscular shoulder. He rolls his hips firmly against the sodden mess their clothing is quickly becoming and shudders at the fire-bright burn along his shaft. “I never said that.”

“You,” Tobirama gasps, instinctively rocking back, “just did, you walking disaster.”

A sudden thrust. Knees sliding as fingers scrabble in the dirt.

It feels so good to finally wrench the fabric out from between them and fill the space with his fingers.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he grunts, surprised to note that Tobirama was just as thorough at opening himself up this morning as he was. Smooth and stretched with just enough resistance to ruin him.

“How was that exact interpretation not inherent in the use of—” 

Madara twists his wrist just so and wrings out a harsh expulsion of breath. It’s the most effective way he knows to distract Tobirama before he gains momentum in a dispute. So many of their dalliances start with screaming matches—end in them, too, poetically enough.

Tobirama clenches tellingly and spreads his thighs further to take Madara as deep as his knuckles will allow.

Like every instance before, the pleasure is potent enough to table the discussion. Still, Madara doesn’t want him angry, not here when they’re a single orgasm away from being wed under the light of Amaterasu.

“How do you expect me to think straight when you’re under me?” he answers with a question, sounding every bit as love-drunk as he feels. “As if I know what the hell to do with words whenever you’re around.” And it’s true. There’s something intoxicating about Senju Tobirama; he’s a challenger that Madara isn’t intent on dominating completely—he wants to win his hand. Wants to do all of the tender things young lovers do, at least as much as two broken men can having grown to adulthood in a time of war.

Tobirama…doesn’t seem to care for those things. When they fuck on their desks, in the woods, against the side of the Senju clan home, that’s all it is. 

Fucking.

Uchiha show their affections through the passions of their bodies. No matter how blatant he is nor how often they dance, Tobirama never seems to get it, that there’s an undercurrent of emotion attached. The things Madara says out loud may be churlish and incitatory, but it’s not about the words that come out of his mouth.

He wonders if that’s the missing piece. Mistranslation. Maybe the Senju really are that different.

“I was trying to tell you, even when we’re married by the end of this, you won’t have to—what I mean is, clan is important. I wouldn’t force you to be anyone other than who you are,” he admits, curling his fingers and dragging a sweet moan from Tobirama’s lips.

“_Shut up_,” Tobirama orders, sounding too punched out for the inherent threat to hit home. “Why bother lying? Why pretend to be kind? You know this isn’t how we do things.”

As if upsetting the status quo has ever mattered to Madara.

Viscous lubricant clings to his fingers as he eases them out of the hot press and swipes a trail up Tobirama’s cleft to gather even more. He shudders at the overwhelming pleasure of his own hand where it pumps his cock to ever greater fullness. Two. Three times. On the fourth delicious pass, he guides himself to Tobirama’s entrance.

There’s a tense expectation between them that has him misjudging the angle and hissing in frustration.

On the next attempt, his engorged cockhead pushes past what little resistance remains with an abrupt give, then he’s driving unerringly forward to seat himself fully.

Tobirama calls out his name, low and sweet as Madara’s song joins his.

They both remain motionless for the span of several breaths, trembling at the pleasure that’s just shy of too much.

“Isn’t how _you_ do things,” Madara says, picking up the conversation once more. A careful, tentative thrust has him wetting his lips at the tightness of the pull. “I want you, Senju Tobirama. Have for a long time. That’s not a lie. Everything you’ll give me—I want it all.”

There’s an odd expression on Tobirama’s face when he looks back over his shoulder, something Madara can’t even begin to parse out.

“Senju? Not Uch—oh, right there,” Tobirama demands, groaning as Madara spreads his thighs, digs in deep, and thrusts _up_. He wraps one arm around Tobirama’s narrow waist and grinds to get that extra centimeter of depth. Pulls out until his glans catches, then sheaths himself back in the heat that calls to him so inexorably.

“Yes,” Madara moans in his ear, panting like the bellows of a forge and burning twice as hot.

For a long time, they fall silent except for the noises of their coupling—the wet, rhythmic slap of bodies, the answering calls of their pleasure, animalistic grunts of effort as Madara slams forward and Tobirama presses back to meet him.

They collide together hard and fast with enough heat to rival the sun. Sweat builds, makes the places where they touch slick with sweat despite the chill. That Hashirama’s haori flaps around and over their bodies only adds to the hearth housed between them.

It’s pleasure so sharp it aches. Cock swollen and a heart full and fit to bursting.

Madara sloppily mouths along the back of Tobirama’s neck, moving to nuzzle the dampness of his hairline. Finally, he breaks the quiet to tell Tobirama what he’s tried to show him for months.

“I can’t wait to have you in my bed.” A rattling inhale and hands clenching around Tobirama’s waist with more force than any vice. “Wake up next to you, have tea with you.” He screws his eyes shut on a particularly sweet flutter around the base of his cock. “Share meals and talk about what you like. Fight until we fall down and do it all over again,” he admits, rutting faster, more and more desperate with each admission.

Late autumn air stings his throat and makes his eyes water, but there’s no stopping. Not now. Not when he has Tobirama strong and pliant beneath him, taking everything Madara can give and daring him to give more. 

“I want you,” he reiterates, more air than sound, “but I won’t force you.”

He feels Tobirama’s huff of laughter in the clench around his cock.

“_As if you could_.” 

And how clever he is to know exactly what to say to drag Madara crashing over the edge. Everything in his body tenses, muscles progressively locking and trembling with the strain of chasing that flash-fire release. It’s impossible to stop the rising tide of orgasm. Especially when his stomach clenches and his scrotum tightens, smacking luridly against miles of smooth, sweat-slick skin. 

“Tobi-ra-ma,” he groans, a broken, desperate thing.

The tight coil of anticipation snaps and releases in an explosive burst. Biting down hard enough to bruise, he buries his roar of pleasure into the broad expanse of skin sliding against his lips. Tobirama tastes like salt and ink. Though, it’s a difficult thing to focus on when his eyes are crossing with the abrupt surge of come, each pulse more powerful than the last.

Sex between them is always good. But, knowing that this is the tryst that will tie them together for life adds a blinding need to go farther, faster. Do better.

Gasping, he drives through the overwhelming rush of pleasure and the oversensitivity it drags in its wake to get just one more taste of Tobirama’s tightness. To give his husband everything that he can until he’s empty and aching with it.

He quickly fists Tobirama’s cock, palm lubricated by oil as a spill of precome dribbles over his knuckles. A handful of strong, brutal strokes and Tobirama hangs his head, breathy little “ah’s” ratcheting up in pitch. Finally, he collapses to his elbows as the first wave hits.

Madara wishes he could see his face—eyes fluttering as he tries to keep them open and fails.

Then, without warning, the clone dissipates, leaving Madara on his hands and knees, poised over a puddle of his own come and staring at the ground in shock. His cock gives a valiant twitch and bobs heavily between his legs, though the cold has him completely flaccid soon enough.

It takes a long moment to come back to himself, to realize that no, Tobirama isn’t his husband now. The hunt is still on.

He’s used to Tobirama taking off on him after they fuck, but the asshole usually has the decency to stick around until he’s at least finished being filled, Madara thinks wryly. 

He laughs, softly at first, then lets the mirth reverberate in his chest, dry and fond.

“Sage’s balls,” he curses, though there’s no heat to it, “remind me why I like him?” The canopy rustles in sympathy. As the leaves wave in a non-existent breeze, Madara slowly eases back onto his heels and tilts his head to the sky. Long tendrils of hair stick to the sweat on his chest—so too does the crisp air, cooling the fire in his blood far more quickly than is comfortable.

It’s just verging on noon if his disappearing shadow is anything to go by. Only a few hours left to stake his claim.

Later, though. He’s soiled, satiated, and in desperate need of a wash. Plus, Tobirama, wherever he is, is likely going to need some time to assimilate the new memories and dissect each and every word that was said, how they were stated, and study them in the context of his accompanying body language. Intellectually perseverating on things that should be felt instead of calculated is part of his charm.

His ridiculous, infuriating charm.

Madara rolls his eyes, standing slowly so that the muscles of his lower back don’t protest the stretch. The Naka isn’t too far. If he runs at a moderate pace, he’ll be able to make himself presentable—or at least not quite so much of a filth-laden spectacle—before resuming the hunt in earnest.

He adjusts Hashirama’s haori, toeing an exposed root with the assumption that his friend’s disembodied will is in everything green or brown. Not surprisingly, it twitches and wraps hair-thin rootlets around his toes.

“Alright, first a bath, then a husband.”

It squeezes his ankle once, then slips back into the soil.

If he weren’t so used to the insanity of the mokuton already, the shifting trees opening a path before him would be the stuff of nightmares.

As it stands, it’s nice to have the reassurance of a friend and the blessing of an elder brother. 


	3. Tobirama 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While today’s proceedings have unfolded more fortuitously than expected, missing a branch and crashing headlong into the dirt as the echoes of orgasm slam through him is certainly not Tobirama’s proudest moment.

While today’s proceedings have unfolded more fortuitously than expected, missing a branch and crashing headlong into the dirt as the echoes of orgasm slam through him is certainly not Tobirama’s proudest moment.

He gasps and arches in the leaf litter—clawing at the soil and kicking up mounds with his heels. Lips rounded on a litany of breathy ‘oh’s, his clone’s memories continue to assault him with vivid imagery of Madara’s face, softened by affection, and the damning admissions that pierce his stomach cleaner than any kunai. This isn’t an attack he could have prepared for, though he understands why his clone chose not to disburse immediately.

Madara is…an intriguing man.

Physically, he’s precisely Tobirama’s type—dark eyes, a rakish grin, and a body honed in battle with the patchwork scars to prove it. And within that body is a soul comprised of unbridled passion for life and family that Tobirama cannot deny is alluring in its outlandishness.

The Senju are not an overtly affectionate people, Hashirama being one of few exceptions. It’s not appropriate to casually brush hands or to drape oneself over your precious people. No chaste kisses among siblings. No palms on the small of your back in a subtle show of support. 

Touch starved and desperate, staging arguments just to get the intractable Uchiha under him or in him is an art form he’s mastered through necessity. To have Madara outright admit to wanting those things with him instead of cursing his name is surprising.

Tobirama doesn’t know what to think of the man who says one thing and means another.

At a loss, he continues to lie on his back while spend dribbles down his inner thighs and draws forth a shiver. The lethargy of satiated afterglow begins to sink in, weighing down his limbs and making his eye-lids heavy. For a brief moment of insanity, he wonders what it would be like to linger in the humid pocket between Madara’s body and his bright red sheets after sex. To curl into that barrel chest and let their chakra blur at the edges in the post-coital bliss shinobi like to recount fondly when bedding down on missions.

He…he could have that.

A friend to come home to. A lover to challenge his mind and collaborate with on projects. A husband for him to love and be loved by in turn.

Uchiha Madara could give him that.

Scoffing, Tobirama struggles to sit up. Coming has him ridiculously soft-hearted and thinking impossible things because of it. He champs his teeth and slowly climbs to his feet with a grunt. His thighs feel disgusting.

“I’m such a fool,” he says aloud. Madara’s words were obviously a ploy—the witless ramblings of a sex-addled mind. As if that anthropomorphized compost heap could ever feel anything but contempt towards him.

A quiet rustle has him glancing down to the delicate vine that hovers next to him in the path, reaching out with its fine tendrils to tangle in the space between his fingers. The mokuton always responds to his unease the same way his brother does—effusive touching.

“Get off of me, Anija,” he snaps, at which the vine shrinks away reluctantly.

He needs to get out of here and find somewhere he can _think_. Some place where he can meditate in peace and let the pieces of his cracked reality be fitted back together into something that makes sense. 

As always, the Naka calls to him.

Letting go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Tobirama scans the sweeping wash of green, brown, and black that’s as familiar to him as his own skin. Massive oaks tower above him and cast the path in shadow, holding the sun at bay with their thick leaves and great, curling branches. This forest is his home as much as it is Hashirama’s and it soothes him just the same. He tips his head back and allows the soft rustle of leaves and the sweet, chirping cadence of songbirds to tamp down his chakra’s agitated lashings to something a little more placid. The still, mirrored surface of a lake as opposed to the raging rapids it had begun to edge towards.

The anger leaves him as quickly as it came and he can’t help but wonder if he’s guilty of the same displays of aggression in the face of confusion that he belittles Madara for. His brow furrows, fists clenching and releasing.

Damn the man for being more than his brash, unpleasant bearing would suggest.

Tobirama collects himself with another deep lungful of the crisp Autumn air and sets off sprinting towards the river that understands him best. Tree litter crunches under his soles, giving a peaceful, almost metronomic quality to his run. Sunlight filters through in warm patches that ease the ache of his frigid feet and make the tackiness rubbing between his thighs slightly more bearable. If not for the hunt, he would say it was shaping up to be a rather pleasant afternoon. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, a bright bloom of chakra unfurls half a league downstream from where Tobirama had planned to immerse himself. It roils and blisters the air—a katon jutsu, then—but there’s no animosity in Madara’s aura. No anger. Only a sharp spike of surprise, then a deep satisfaction, oddly enough.

Meditation will have to wait.

Tobirama slides to an abrupt stop, sending up a cloud of dirt and flashing through seals before his momentum dies. A clone pops into existence, immediately grimacing and crossing his arms tightly.

“We’ll have to devise some way to retard a clone’s physical sensation in the future. This weather is foul.”

“It is,” Tobirama agrees readily, not that it changes the fact that they’ll be out here like this until nightfall.

The clone narrows his eyes and casts a sensory net to get his bearings, white hair flickering in the breeze and looking for all the world like the pillar of ice people claim him to be. Tobirama turns away. How can Madara profess to hold affection for such a thing?

“As you can see, Madara is casting jutsu south of the falls. If we are to be successful in this hunt, we need to bring him down,” he explains, though they’re both already aware.

“If running until sundown is no longer a viable option, you’ll need a diversion.” His clone’s eyes take on a glint of amusement, managing to bury his smile in a forced cough. Why he bothers, Tobirama can’t say, particularly when he himself has the same color rising high on his cheeks. The sex will be satisfying, as it always is, but there will likely be more of the conversation Madara broached earlier in the day. More of those unfamiliar acts of affection and professions of love. Running won’t give him the opening he needs to parse out how much of that is truth and what is an act.

Direct confrontation is the only route that will afford him the latitude to reveal Madara’s ploy for what it is. And if there isn’t one…well, that will open up an entirely different avenue of opportunity.

His face heats up considerably.

“You are correct. I will need your assistance as both scout and first contact,” he admits, because at least couching this in terms of a mission will hold the hope at bay.

His clone presses his lips into a thin line, shaking his head. “Madara will be expecting any show of forwardness to have a caveat and he’s well aware that we typically make two shadow clones at a given time. He’ll likely treat whomever approaches him as the copy and act without thought of repercussion,” he points out, shifting his weight and meeting Tobirama’s gaze headlong.

“When does he not act without thought of repercussion?” Tobirama asks dryly.

A deep bark of laughter rises up, loud enough to startle a crow into flight. “A valid point. Still, the fact remains that it would behoove us to have you serve as the diversion in my stead. If events do not unfold the way you would prefer, I will stand by on retainer to intervene as if I am the original. ”

Being that his clone is an exact mirror to himself, he agrees with all of his points, though large swaths of implication are left to curdle in his chest where no light can reach. Some things don’t need to be said.

Flares of angry confusion aside, they both know of his burgeoning desire to experience Madara’s tender words for himself and not only through a veil of returned memories. Rolling his eyes at his own deep-seated ridiculousness, Tobirama holds his hand aloft to count the hours.

“Very well. We’ve wasted enough daylight,” he says, concluding that there’s approximately four hours before the sun will sink past the horizon.

Plenty of time to either secure a husband or drown a lying Uchiha sack of shit. 

Both options hold a certain appeal. 

As one, they turn towards the Naka, falling into a relaxed, loping run shoulder to shoulder. They pass soundlessly along the path, leaping up the bole of a massive mokuton construct, and using its helpful branches as a direct line to the cove Madara is performing his inexplicable series of jutsu in.

It’s as simple as breathing to repress his signature and leap lightly to the ground while his clone peels away to track further upstream.

Another few paces and he sidles up close to the bank, wrapped within the great shadow of a cypress tree—its rough bark a steady, bracing anchor. He takes a moment to assess his target on the opposite shore as Madara cups a massive boulder with both hands and steadily feeds chakra into it. The sluggish current ripples around his hips, pulling his hair off and away from his scarred back, bare down to the beginning swell of his buttocks.

Tobirama swallows heavily.

Another burst of fire and, ah, that would explain the sequential flare of ash-scented chakra he felt in the forest. The Uchiha has managed to heat the boulder sufficiently to set the water around him steaming in the chilly afternoon.

The promise of warmth sounds divine.

The addition of shared company even more so.

Tobirama blinks slowly, snorting in derision. Izuna is going to be absolutely insufferable if this plan comes to fruition, demanding recompense for lost time with his brother. As if he won’t be secretly grateful for no longer having to make excuses when he slips out of the Uchiha compound for his own illicit affairs. Perhaps Tobirama should point out the peonies Hashirama regularly leaves in his hair at some point. Or maybe he’ll let Izuna continue under the false supposition that he’s being subtle.

Surrounded by some of the greatest military minds to have arisen from the ashes of the Warring States Era, yet they’re all complete imbeciles.

And Madara might very well be the worst offender in that regard. Cultural differences aside, Tobirama prefers to attribute all failings between them thus far to Madara’s inability to communicate plainly without first wetting his dick.

He’ll learn to adapt over time. If this hunt goes well, they both will.

Tobirama deftly plucks at the knot on his obi until it falls away and his yukata along with it. Channeling chakra to his soles, he strides down the slope and onto the surface of the river. A flick of his wrist and the suppression seal dies, allowing his aura to grow as strong and sinuous as the element he embodies.

He can tell the exact moment that Madara notices him. A fine, almost imperceptible ripple of tension before he regains control and forcibly relaxes his body. The bulges of his biceps settle lower on his arms as the definition in his back smooths. He doesn’t deign to show Tobirama the respect of turning to meet him, but that’s nothing new.

Though, now Tobirama wonders if that’s not so much a sign of contempt as it is a well-calculated demonstration of trust. A means to show Tobirama the faith he holds in the bond between them—one that he can’t express with words. It’s frustrating how Madara’s confessions have upturned everything he thought he knew about the man.

“Your skill as a portable water heater serves as a point in your favor,” Tobirama says in place of a greeting as he brazenly approaches, an exaggerated sway in his stride. “Though, I wonder how you expect to bring me down when whiling your time away on such self-indulgent luxuries.”

Madara finally turns to face him, crossing his arms and dropping his shoulders back to rest on the boulder’s sloped face. He settles against it with a dry bark of laughter. “Not self-indulgent if you’re here to enjoy it with me,” he points out, cocking his head far enough for his bangs to swing free.

He’s a genuinely attractive man if one looks past the surly demeanor.

Tobirama prides himself on his ability to separate his wants as a man from his political and military stratagem, but here, he finds himself caring less and less about the ramifications of a misstep. Not with Madara pink tinged and striking, a smattering of dark hair leading Tobirama’s eyes down, down to where his hips are submerged.

When he returns his attention to Madara’s face, he’s met with a knowing gaze.

“A fair point,” he admits, waving dismissively. Finally, he allows himself to sink down into the river, well within Madara’s range if he were so inclined to reach out. And he wants to. Tobirama can feel the disquiet in his chakra—can all but taste the thick, savory scent of his concentrated focus.

It’s both flattering and unnerving to be the target of such intense regard. And that hawk’s gaze only sharpens further when Tobirama groans at the mix of pain and pleasure as his frigid hands and feet burn in the abrupt temperature shift.

Madara’s nostrils flare and his chest rises a touch faster. “So, has Tobirama thought about what I said earlier?” he asks with faux nonchalance. The steam around him wavers as he sinks down until his chest is half submerged, hair clouding the water like an oversized ink-spill.

“I believe this to be the case,” Tobirama replies, catching a strand of Madara’s hair in the current and bringing it up to his lips. The warmth is a balm against his chapped skin.

“Though he also has questions.”

Questions like why Madara chose him out of all the shinobi in the village—the sword arm behind most of Izuna’s war wounds—and how he can spew some of the most personal, scathing commentary yet claim that the words come from a place of affection. Of course part of the disconnect can be attributed to cultural differences, but he suspects that a healthy portion of their misunderstandings has to do with Madara himself.

Rolling his eyes, Madara cups his hands to splash water on his face and rub at a particularly stubborn streak of mud. “Everything is a Sage-damned question with him. Can’t take a piss without calculating the trajectory,” he mutters.

Though he’s correct in the spirit of the thing, Tobirama chooses to take offence. He snaps his fist back and yanks on the lock of hair in his grip, because Madara may be an absolute bastard, but he’s not the only one with rights to that claim. There’s a loud gasp of surprise, then a steady stream of bubbles as Tobirama shoves him under and holds him there long enough to enjoy the thrashing. Finally, he deigns to pull back, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised expectantly. 

“If you’re quite done, the first question is ‘why?’”

“Why what, you menace?” Madara hisses, rising from the water red cheeked and huffing. Sputtering, he battles his thick mass of hair, only managing to tame it by dunking himself once again. When he comes up this time, it’s with fire in his eyes.

Whatever goodwill Tobirama had earned by approaching him nude with a ready smile is obviously lost.

“Why me?” he clarifies. As always, conversation between them is a travesty, but the deep furrow in Madara’s brow begins to ease slightly.

“Why him, you mean?” he asks putting an odd exaggeration on the word. “Because he’s as much of a pain in the ass as I am. Strong, intelligent, not afraid to speak his piece. It’s impressive.” The admission seems to shift something, opens him up just enough for Tobirama to catch another glimpse of softness now that he knows what to look for.

Madara takes a step closer and looks up at him through the moisture collected on his lashes. “The kids help, too,” he says, referring to Tobirama’s habit of training any young person willing to learn. “He values family the same as any Uchiha even though he’ll deny liking his brother’s love all the way to his death bed.”

Tobirama scoffs loudly at that, though it’s telling that he doesn’t outright deny it. Surrendering to Hashirama’s excessive physical affections is a defeat he’ll gladly accept in private—public displays are a different situation entirely. 

Water sloshes against his stomach as Madara moves in even closer. The warmth of his hands—made even more so by several prolonged katon jutsu—settle on Tobirama’s waist with easy familiarity. Fire-bright thumbs slide along the outer line of his abdominals, fingers spread with the suggestion of dipping down further.

“This doesn’t hurt either.”

“_This_ can wait until I’m satisfied with your answers,” Tobirama shoots back primly, making the mistake of pressing his hand against Madara’s chest to keep him at bay. He’d be lying to say he was immune to the feel of that strong, steady heartbeat under his palm. “My second question—”

“His second question,” Madara interjects smoothly.

“—is why you felt the need to make me aware of your affections towards me now, during the course of a political hunt? You’ve had well over a year to initiate a courtship if you were so inclined, but you chose now to pull your head out of your ass and speak with greater clarity than the animal grunts you’re so partial to?” It may be a cruel thing to say knowing what he does now, especially being privy to the meaning behind the way Madara used to inexplicably seek him out. Still, he can’t help but slip back into old habits.

Arguing is comfortable in its familiarity.

“Yes, because you’re fucking impossible!” Madara hisses through his teeth, grip tightening notably as the easiness between them devolves. “Every single time I try to get close to you, you set me off on purpose—like you’re doing right now—and even though I know that’s what you’re doing, I can’t help blowing up. Then nine times out of ten we’re at each other’s throats and screwing five seconds later and you’ve disappeared before I can get a word in that isn’t just me screaming your name!”

Waves spill over the bank with the force of Madara’s lashing chakra. It takes palpable effort for him to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and piece together the dregs of his control, but he manages it well enough. As soon as the smell of ash recedes, he drops his forehead against Tobirama’s collarbone in a rare show of defeat.

“Shit. That’s not what I—Tobirama, I’m not an easy man to get along with, which I’m sure half of Konoha knows by now.”

“Only half?” Tobirama quips, falling silent when Madara snaps his head back to level him with an entirely unimpressed glare. 

“But I’m trying, you ass. I’ve been trying for a while, I just can’t figure out how to get through to you. I care for you and want you more than I should, but for some reason I can’t show you that in any way you can understand.”

He continues to stare pointedly, watching Tobirama’s face for an indication of…something. As with most things related to this infuriating, glorious man, Tobirama hasn’t a clue what that could be. He sighs and finally lets his hand fall, pulling Madara into a loose embrace. It’s not a natural inclination and his hold is stiff, but Madara flows against him with enough confidence for them both. The hands on Tobirama’s hips shift up to rest between his shoulders and at the small of his back, drawing their bodies flush.

“I believe you’ve made a start,” Tobirama says, breathing deeply of the smell of embers that always clings to Madara’s hair. And it’s true. For all of their faults, he can see them working well together as more than cohorts. Possibly even coming to love one another in time. Still, there’s one glaring threat that cannot be overlooked. “However, mutual infatuation aside, I have no intention of leaving my clan for you.”

Madara’s reaction isn’t what he expects. There’s no flare of temper for being denied so bluntly, no ripple of chakra to overwhelm his senses. Instead, he holds tighter and presses a kiss just below Tobirama’s ear—chaste and lingering. 

“I’d never actually ask you to do that. Family is everything,” he admits, voice rough with emotion.

“Then why did you all but demand Hunter’s Rights and taunt me with the possibility?”

Water burbles around them, filling in the silence as Madara shifts in his arms and grunts noncommittally. If the thick, hot line of him weren’t so satisfying pressed against Tobirama’s chest, he’d gladly drown the frustrating Uchiha again for making him wait. Still, in a way, he understands the hesitation. Conversation will never be their forte—neither of them have the natural predisposition to social niceties that Hashirama and Izuna share—but he’s trying. They both are in their own ways.

“You were cold,” Madara finally says, staying close enough that his lips brush Tobirama’s neck on each word.

Clenching instinctively, Tobirama tugs on the thick curtain of hair, hoping the note of chastisement translates. “I was standing in permafrost, barefoot and mostly naked on the coldest morning we’ve had yet this year. Of course I was cold. What does that have to do with anything?” Despite reminding himself that they’re supposed to be trying to stay civil, his tone edges towards the lower end of his register, sharp and clipped. Though, if he’s being entirely honest, there’s a certain appeal to making Madara subconsciously strain and flex against him.

“You were cold,” Madara repeats with a breathy exhale that makes Tobirama shiver, in no way attributable to the chill. “And you always get flushed when we argue. I swear, your blood runs as hot as an Uchiha. I figured if I pissed you off, it would help.” He shrugs and brazenly insinuates his thigh between Tobirama’s, thick with muscle and intent on making his stance widen.

When considered in the context of Madara’s behavior during those first moments of the hunt—his insistence on bullying up into Tobirama’s space, kneading molten chakra under his skin with palms that seemed to burn—it all begins to make a strange sort of sense. Unconscionably thick-headed, Madara was attempting to comfort Tobirama in the only way he knew how while simultaneously saving face in front of the clan heads.

Even with the marriage hunt initiated, the Inoshikachō alliance would have pulled out of negotiations had they sensed any note of weakness or signs of a pre-established relationship. Any true show of tenderness would have been damning.

“It did help,” Tobirama admits, thinking of the anger and the way his legs pumped harder with it, the way Madara wrestled his clone to the ground and took him housed within the generous folds of his brother’s haori. And now the hot, soothing bath crafted with Uchiha ingenuity. This entire time, Madara has been solicitously looking out for his intended and Tobirama has been so blinded by his own preconceptions that he refused to see the truth of it.

They’re both such ignorant, simple-minded imbeciles. It’s amazing they’ve survived in each other’s company as long as they have.

“Good intentions aside, I won’t let you own me,” he repeats, letting his feet slide in the river mud and parting his legs to feel Madara’s thigh press up against the softness between them. It’s no hardship to grind down and revel in the drag of skin, slicked by the lingering residue of oil but still offering enough friction to raise goosebumps all over again.

Breath coming in faster, Madara rises up to meet him, his building arousal growing more and more evident against Tobirama’s hip. “Believe me, I would love to be able to take my time and do this right, but the Sage-damned hunt forced my hand. If it’s not consummated, I’ve lost all chance of having you as a husband.” He pulls back to look up with slack lips and hooded eyes gone near-black with want.

Oh. Tobirama swallows, eyes growing wide with the realization that Madara is correct. The ancient laws house an odd turn of phrase that through the centuries has been translated to imply a protection of sorts for the hunted. If a hunt culminates with no claim seal laid, the gods have looked upon the pairing disfavourably and no marriage or repeat hunt will be permitted. 

Thus Madara’s impulsively announced intentions—his sudden and outlandish claims of love. He knows that anything short of baring the truth will result in having Tobirama lost to him completely. It makes sense now why he is so insistent on revealing his heart all the while sheathing his cock.

If he weren’t so moved, Tobirama would laugh.

As it is, his voice is rough when he finally speaks. “Activate your Sharingan and watch.” The command startles Madara into putting his leg down, but not without one more grinding push against the underside of Tobirama’s cock. As soon as he can feel chakra gather, Tobirama averts his gaze and reclaims his hands from sodden hair, steepling his fingers into a tiger seal and holding it close to his chest until the Sharingan glows red in his periphery. Confident that he has Madara’s undivided attention, he tears through a complex series of signs. No matter the speed, Madara will have followed.

Once finished, he cups Madara’s face between his palms and settles his thumbs at the corners of his eyes, a dangerous position, but one he’s allowed for some unfathomable reason. The show of trust settles heavily in his stomach.

Yes, this is something he can have—a husband in the truest sense, both partner and equal.

“Now cast the jutsu,” he chokes out.

“Which chakra nature?”

“Water.” It’s amazing how Madara doesn’t even question it, simply turns to kiss a palm, then forms the signs in a perfect mirror to Tobirama’s own. He looks down, brows rising to his hairline in surprise at the thick, viscous substance slowly gathering on his fingertips.

Tobirama doesn’t bother resisting a grin, lets it bloom with a level of smugness he can feel in his bones. “Prepare yourself and you’ll have me to come home to, omae.”

Madara’s gaze darts up, red with rapidly spinning tomoe. 

“You’re serious.” There’s a note of wonder in his tone, light and unerringly sweet. “Fuck. You’re serious.” Faster than Tobirama can track, he plunges one hand into the water behind him and surges forward with all the inevitability of the tide. Tobirama doesn’t hesitate in meeting him halfway, burying a fist in that ridiculous fall of hair and bowing to wrench one of Madara’s legs up to wrap around his waist.

Even without seeing it, he knows Madara is taking to his orders with aplomb. There’s a deep groan, fluttering lashes, and the telltale sound of water splashing rhythmically against his back. It’s everything he never realized he needed, and now he can’t help but to lick his lips and throw himself headlong into the slow heat building in his loins.

“We’re going to wind up killing each other,” Madara pants, voice ending in a rumbling purr. 

Tobirama hums softly. “More than likely.” But death for a shinobi is inevitable. At least this path will be a sweet one.

The hand twisting in Madara’s hair gentles and slides to settle around his nape. Another soft thought has Tobirama leaning down to drag his teeth across the line of Madara’s jaw, taking pleasure in the rasp of his stubble and the steadily closing distance between their lips. His reward is a long, deep moan and the delicious friction of a swollen cock sliding along the crease of his thigh. So close, but nowhere near enough.

“You’ll lose the hunt like this,” he murmurs half a second before finally learning what pleasure can be had in stealing a kiss from Uchiha Madara.

It’s soft, warm, and mild in a way Tobirama would never have expected, but melts into all the same. Madara’s wrist slows, so too does his rutting. They move carefully, bodies coming down to focus on that one bright point of connection, finally speaking in a way both can understand.

Old hurts fall away and are lost in the slide of an enterprising tongue as it moistens his lips and coaxes him to taste deeper. For all the times they’ve been intimate, they have never once kissed; Tobirama wouldn’t allow it and at some point, Madara stopped trying. Lips tender and heart in his throat, he realizes now that this is an oversight that will require frequent, repeated correcting.

“Nothing about this feels like losing,” Madara whispers against his mouth, chest heaving and throat tight.

“Madara,” Tobirama begins, nearly swallowing his words when a rough, callused palm cups his scrotum and traces a line of fire all the way up to his cockhead. “I’m—ah—not a shadow clone,” he manages to hiss, thrusting up into that tight fist. “If I take you here, you will lose.”

Some imparted truth seems to hit Madara just right, sets him to chuckling. “It’s cute that you’re trying to be honorable about this, but I’m horny, not stupid and you’re shit at sticking to pronouns,” he rumbles between them, lips pulled thin in a smile that transforms his already handsome face into something truly breathtaking. “Knew you were the real thing from the beginning. Plus, I’ve already told you I don’t care about who wears what claim seal. Even if you fuck me ‘til we come dry, try to make me give up my clan and I’ll put a grand fireball up your ass.” 

It’s such a bizarre threat and one Tobirama can absolutely envision him carrying out. The ludicrous image startles a bark of amusement from him and they both begin laughing, growing louder and louder, bolstered by each other’s joy.

“You ridiculous man,” Tobirama says fondly, pulling Madara’s sculpted body in, unsatisfied when he can’t feel all of him the way he needs to. Without warning, he holds his breath, squats down, and surfaces with Madara’s thighs wrapped firmly around his waist. Shouting curses, Madara claws trails through the water cascading down his shoulders and squeezes with his legs hard enough to bruise. If Tobirama wasn’t already laughing, he would be now, discovering that a shinobi who regularly jumped off of buildings could be so gravitationally insecure.

“After the hunt, you’re going to court me properly,” he announces as he maps one firm, muscular thigh and takes a generous handful of buttock under the guise of helping Madara balance. “We’ll see then if you deserve to call me husband.” And he does already in all of the ways that matter, but far be it for Tobirama to make things easy. Not after being made to run about in the frigid forest thinking his clan allegiance was at stake.

Madara shifts against him—an immense font of power gentled enough to curl close—and nips the shell of his ear. “I would burn the moon from the sky for that right,” he admits. “Now stick your cock in me already.”

Truly, a master of coercion.

Snorting into the thick, wet mass of Madara’s hair, he rubs their cheeks together just to feel the closeness. There’s a breathy gasp, only audible because of the way they’re tangled together, then Madara is digging his heels into the small of Tobirama’s back and clawing with blunt nails as if he’s going to tunnel in and find a home beneath his skin. It’s simplicity itself to turn just that little bit further and distract him with another searing kiss.

“Madara,” he repeats like a mantra between breaths. Warm river water sloshes up around their hips, spilling over long lines of honed muscle as Tobirama wades towards the boulder Madara had been heating. He spares a hand to test the temperature against his palm and, finding it tolerable if just shy of too much, presses Madara’s back against it.

Madara hisses into the kiss but doesn’t let up, instead diving deeper, as expectant and avaricious as he is in battle. Skin slides against skin, viciously working their swollen cocks between them. It’s a struggle for Tobirama to keep up while pinning the writhing fire-starter with his body and working a hand down to test how well Madara prepared himself. 

Even in this he was thorough.

It’s genuinely impressive how driven and detail oriented Madara is while still holding the end goal in sight, though Tobirama shouldn’t be surprised. Such an amazing military mind honed in war and not dulled a whit by the milder tasks of peacetime—it’s one of the reasons they complement each other so well. Distantly he wonders if this burgeoning affection will gentle them. Something to think on later.

For now, he swallows every sound Madara makes and slides three fingers deep into the tight, slick clench of his body. He revels in the groan he draws out with every calculated stroke, realizing that the only thing keeping them apart is his own lingering hesitation.

That won’t do.

“Let up,” he rasps, voice thick and low as he pulls out his fingers to slap Madara’s thigh.

“I swear, if you disappear on me again Senju—”

Tobirama cuts him off. “I won’t,” he reaffirms, meaning so much more than just this moment. “But if you plan on me being in you at some point today, I’m going to need my—”

“Finally!” Madara crows because patience is a concept he only understands in theory. Without further complaint, he loosens the vice grip around Tobirama’s waist just enough for Tobirama to take himself in hand and hitch Madara up higher on his hips.

The feel of his own palm is familiar and good, but angling his shaft and guiding his cockhead to press insistently at Madara’s hole is so much better. There’s barely any resistance as he drives forward and lets gravity do the rest, sheathing himself fully without regard for taking things slow.

They’re beyond that and he knows his partner can take worse.

Yelping, Madara clings to him even harder, struggling to push down and keep Tobirama from pulling back. It’s flattering to be the object of his singular focus, and Tobirama would appreciate it more if he could string two thoughts together. It’s impossible, though. Not with such a wet, pulsating heat milking his cock on every thrust and a litany of praises being moaned in his ear.

He grasps desperately for Madara’s hips, water frothing between them when he picks up speed. The angle changes as he rocks into his new husband with abandon and Madara cries out again, a deep sound this time—rich and soulful—that makes things too good, too soon. 

Tobirama kisses him with more passion than finesse. It’s sloppy and prefect the way they fit together, ramping up the tension until he can’t hold any longer. Luckily, Madara appears to be just as lost, eyes gone hazy, lips red and swollen as he pants so heavily he can’t seem to still.

Tobirama sympathizes—there’s no more air to be had.

His eyes flutter shut and he groans into the first pulse of his release, resting his forehead against Madara’s and grinding desperately. Short little thrusts that coax him dry and leave him boneless. It’s with a mild degree of consternation that he nudges Madara’s fist out of the way and finishes him off as well. The brutal clench of his hole around Tobirama’s softening cock is both pain and pleasure in one. He wants to chase the wicked fireworks until he breaks, but he doesn’t have it in him to take anymore.

Madara’s moans die down as his spend is washed away by the river.

“Fuck,” he summarizes, sounding punched out. “That was incredible.”

A sentiment Tobirama can easily attest to.

They continue to cling to each other long enough to catch their breaths and let the pleasant lassitude pull them back down to the river silt. Madara stands close, arms wrapped around Tobirama’s neck, not letting him pull away. Several lazy kisses are exchanged in the fading light of late afternoon.

Tobirama pets Madara’s hair and follows it down to the swell of his buttocks. “I look forward to making a home with you.” And he’s shocked to find that he means it.

Humming his agreement, Madara sucks the water droplets from his collarbone, mouth as hot as a brand. Which reminds Tobirama. He presses a chaste kiss to Madara’s forehead, cups the back of his neck, and gathers his chakra there. The claim seal isn’t anything ornate, simply the kanji of Tobirama’s name wrapped in gilt. When he dies, the chakra will fade with him, but hopefully that won’t be for quite some time. He finds himself actually wanting this. Wanting Uchiha Madara.

Maybe…

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks, abruptly brought out of his musings when the weight against him seems to double.

“Mmm, I’m warm and you’re comfortable,” Madara retorts, only tangentially answering the question. “Now stop moving.”

Wincing at the thought of having to leave the pleasure of their private little onsen, Tobirama glances up to the sky. “Very well, but there are only two hours until the sun sets and the culmination of the hunt is sounded.”

“So?”

“So how do you expect to run me down and claim me in turn if you languish here in my arms?”

The open surprise in Madara’s expression is well worth the offer of sharing power between them. Perhaps it’s the softness of the afterglow, but this feels right—beginning a courtship between them on equal standing. Partners as well as spouses, both wearing the other’s claim, and both confident in their continued roles as members of the Senju and Uchiha respectively. For the first time since they started circling each other almost a year ago, Tobirama can sense the edges of the love that Madara already professes to hold in his heart.

He may not return those feelings quite yet, but he thinks there’s a possibility given time.

“Five minute head start? No clones.” Madara asks, eyes narrowed as if expecting a trick.

Tobirama cups his strong jaw and gifts him with a butterfly-soft kiss on the tip of his nose. It’s cold and his legs are still weak from sex. Two hours is far more than they’ll need.

“Your terms are agreeable. Don’t make me wait, Uchiha.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voting for the Choose Your Own Adventure is over! :D


	4. Alternate ending summaries - not a real chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested on Tumblr, this chapter contains brief summaries for the rejected CYOA forks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you missed out on the first Choose Your Own Adventure, the second is starting up on Tumblr [HERE.](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/post/190028320452/choose-your-own-adventure) (1/3/20)

**Alternate routes:  
**

1.) “I challenge Uchiha Madara’s claim by merit of my position as acting head of the Senju clan,” he contends, voice as icy as the permafrost under their feet.

**This would have set a very different tone for the fic. Their interactions would have been more of a power play, a struggle of stubborn ideologies going head to head. Both Madara and Tobirama are very headstrong and this route would have been a fun romp where they actively tried to one-up each other. Tobirama would have taken a more active role in “fighting” back.**

2.) He allows Madara this small concession, knowing it’s impossible for him to challenge the claim from a position of equal authority. Though he’s heir apparent to the Senju clan, it’s not a title that holds weight. 

**Chosen route.**

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1.) “That’s assuming you have the skill to catch me,” he scoffs, curling his lip as if Madara is something strange and particularly vile. There is a time limit of sorts for the hunt. As long as Tobirama can evade the idiot Uchiha, he’ll be freed from the marriage contract altogether at sundown. 

**This option would have resulted in a strictly chase-centric hunt as opposed to one characterized by a wide web of traps/lures laid in the forest.**

2.) “It may be your name signed on the hunter’s claim, but I assure you, I won’t be the one adopting a new clan, Senju Madara,” Tobirama ripostes, smiling with far too many teeth. No matter who signs the document, the power dynamic will ultimately be decided by whomever is felled in the forest. This is his Anija’s domain, Tobirama won’t lose.

**Chosen route.**

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1.) “So, do you plan on running or are you just going to bend over for me right here and let our brothers watch?” Madara croons, voice dropping towards the lower end of his register. His thumbs sweep over the hardness of Tobirama’s nipples like a promise.

**This fork was a little more subtle. Both tracks would have led to Tobirama using his Hiraishin at the last second, but his frame of mind during intimate moments would have been different. Going the sex-talk route would have had ramifications later on where it would take significantly more to convince Tobirama that there is actual emotion behind Madara’s overtures in the forest.**

2.) “If you’re going to take me on, you had better prepare yourself to dance, Senju Tobirama,” Madara intones as he slides his palms down Tobirama’s chest and takes his wrists firmly in hand. Molten chakra begins to crackle and pop where they touch.

**Chosen route. ** **Madara’s passion is most evident through physical expression. By challenging Tobirama to dance, Madara essentially offered a small, intimate part of himself at the get go. That’s why Tobirama gives him that little admission of “I’ve been prepared to dance since that first day on the river. Come find me, Uchiha.”**

_____________________________________

1.) Tobirama strategically places shadow clones throughout the forest to mask his chakra signature and lead Madara on a merry chase. 

**Chosen route.**

2.) Tobirama devises seal traps for a more direct confrontation. 

**Exactly what the box says. No clone shenanigans.**

_____________________________________

**Choosing “incorrectly” on this one would have fucked you over for the entire arc (except I would have written in a work-around to bring you back on a more successful track because I’m not entirely cruel).**

1.) “As much as he’ll let me,” he mutters, pulling away.

**Chosen route. Positive: Madara’s note of pining and the glimpse of thus far unrequited love between himself and Tobirama wins Hashirama’s blessing. The forest actively comes to his aid. The hunt is a success in the end.**

2.) He pats Hashirama’s hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt him.”

**Neutral: Hashirama neither supports nor inhibits Madara’s role as hunter.**

3.) Madara shoves away from Hashiama’s half-hug and abruptly starts to walk away, hair blowing wildly. When he looks over his shoulder, he can barely make out Hashirama through it. “Like he would afford me the same courtesy,” he points out, then leaps towards the tree line. 

**Negative: The mokuton-imbued plants that comprise the forest, feeding off of Hashirama’s darkening mood, would have made the hunt absolute hell for Madara. Tobirama would have successfully waited him out until sundown.**

_____________________________________

1.) Madara’s heart slams against his ribs at the challenge and adrenalin floods his stomach, making him giddy with it. He races across the open grass to tackle his prize, to take and take until the sun sets and Tobirama is insensate with pleasure.

**Without taking the time to produce a shadow clone and rushing in headlong, Madara would have been trapped within Tobirama’s seal. He would have struggled until Tobirama deigned to let him out. Conversation heavy—no porn.**

2.) Madara skids to a stop just short of the tree line, wicked grin falling in increments. This is too easy. There must be some kind of trick to it or some trap he hasn’t accounted for. “The hell are you up to?” he mutters under his breath.

**Chosen route. Porn. lol**

_____________________________________

1.) Taking a pale earlobe between his teeth, he suckles it gently as he uses his thighs to urge Tobirama’s apart. The slickness of smeared oil has the edges of their yukatas sticking fast to his buttocks—the only thing between Madara and everything he could ever want.

“Fuck, I’m going to make you love me if it’s the last thing I do,” he pants right up close.

It’s not a romantic ballad like Uchiha courting tradition demands, not anything close, but it’s the best he can come up with when his cock is filling quicker than it has since adolescence. Regardless, it’s enough to make Tobirama pause.

**Chosen route. Madara’s roundabout admission of love is what makes Tobirama stay.**

2.) He uses the advantage of his position to rear back onto his knees and bring Tobirama along with him, arching into a lovely curve that exposes all of that beautiful skin the yukata fails to cover. Looking down the long arch of Tobirama’s body has his stomach tightening and his breath coming faster. 

“Look at you,” he whispers, Sharingan activating.

**Tobirama would have ‘noped’ right the fuck out of there and Madara would have had to chase down another clone, where I would have given you an additional chance to choose the porn track. ;D At this point in the fic, Tobirama wouldn’t have been tolerant of 1.) being manhandled like an object nor 2.) having the Uchiha’s worst weapon brought to bear, seemingly against him.**

_____________________________________

1.) Madara twists his wrist just so and wrings out a harsh expulsion of breath. It’s the most effective way he knows to distract Tobirama before he gains momentum in a dispute. So many of their dalliances started with screaming matches—ended in them, too, poetically enough.

**Chosen route. Familiar, comfortable launching point for sex between them.**

2.) “Hush, Tobirama. For once, just let me take care of you,” Madara sighs, dropping his forehead to rest against the divot of Tobirama’s spine.

**Tobirama would have been confused at the change and subsequently a bit more argumentative. There would have been more conversation leading up to the sex, likely some wrestling, and Tobirama topping from the bottom.**

_____________________________________

1.) He wants to be angry, to tear this stretch of forest apart with the vicious blade his Susanoo wields. It would serve the bastard—his lovely, ruthless, little bastard—right for managing to obfuscate the truth. Tricking him into tenderness, then making love to a clone. Madara sighs. There’s no place for anger here, even if it is his default. Still, it’s a nice thought. “I take it all back. I’m going to kill your brother,” he announces dryly to the surrounding forest, blind to the way the canopy rustles above him. 

**Going this route would have lessened Hashirama’s blessing and Madara would have had a bit of trouble finding Tobirama again.**

2.) He’s used to Tobirama taking off on him, but usually he has the decency to stick around until he’s at least finished being filled, Madara thinks wryly. He laughs, quietly at first, then lets the mirth reverberate in his chest, dry and fond. “Sage’s balls,” he curses, though there’s no heat to it, “remind me why I like him?” The canopy rustles in sympathy. 

**Chosen route. Hashi still loves you.**

_____________________________________

1.) “Get off of me, Anija,” he snaps, to which the vine shrinks away reluctantly.

He needs to get out of here and find somewhere he can think clearly. Some place where he can meditate in peace and let the pieces of his cracked reality be fitted back together into something that makes sense. As always, the Naka calls to him.

**Chosen route. The more benign option, allowing for discussion and a more balanced power dynamic.**

2.) Tobirama inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. “Not now, Anija,” he hisses, pulling his hand away and shaking off the vine. It catches itself on his ankle—a vibrant slip of chakra thrumming with concern—but does little more than pulse once, then fall away.

He performs his ablutions with a quick, low-powered suiton, then holds his hand aloft to count the hours. 

**The remainder of the fic would have been a chase sequence wherein Tobirama kept pace with the clock in order to outlast Madara’s increasingly more desperate attempts at capturing him. The mokuton, having been rebuffed when it was only trying to help, would have interfered in small ways. Nothing drastic, but enough to put Tobirama in a *mood,* thereby setting the stage for a more explosive, action-based conclusion.**

**_____________________________________  
**

1.) “Madara is casting jutsu south of the falls. I need you to scout and report back. I’ll be in my typical location,” he explains, stamping his feet to break up the wet patina of mud sapping the heat from them. His clone glances down, grimaces, and turns to go.

“Of course. Shall I act as a lure to draw him away or engage strictly in reconnaissance?” he asks over his shoulder, profile backlit and dark.

“Do as you feel you must.”

**With Madara being a strong sensor as well, the clone chooses to engage directly. There’s little point in reconnaissance or subterfuge at this point, his intent is to drive Madara away from the river. Cue a very cold, naked Madara cursing Tobirama’s entire lineage as the clone disappears after a harrowing chase and he’s left alone in the middle of the woods. Again.**

2.) The clone narrows his eyes and casts his own sensory net, white hair blowing in the breeze and looking for all the world like the pillar of ice people claim he is. Tobirama turns away. How can Madara profess to hold affection for such a thing?

“As you surely see, Madara is casting jutsu south of the falls. If we are to be successful in this hunt, we need to bring him down,” he explains, more for the comfort of speaking than to impart something they both already know.

His clone’s eyes take on a glint of amusement, though he manages to bury his smile in a forced cough. “You’ll need a diversion.”

“I will.”

**Chosen route. The clone knows what’s up. XD Feelings incoming. lol**

**_____________________________________  
**

1.) Tobirama deftly plucks at the knot on his obi until it falls away and his yukata along with it. Channeling chakra to his soles, he strides down the slope and onto the surface of the river. A flick of his wrist and the suppression seal dies, allowing his aura to grow as strong and sinuous as the element he embodies.

**Chosen route. Tobirama’s brazen approach makes Madara think he’s the clone and, as such, Mads is much more open from the get-go, knowing that there won’t be any direct repercussions for the things he says. He’s allowed to be soft because this is Tobirama-lite (or so he thinks).**

2.) Tobirama watches Madara bathe from the safety of the tree line for a time, observing how contentedness settles in deep and relieves the lines of tension between his brows. With patience befitting a shinobi, Tobirama sinks down into tailor sitting and waits for his presence to be noted.

**This choice would have alerted Madara to the fact that Tobirama was the real deal early on. He would have play-acted as if he thought Tobirama to be a clone as a ploy to draw him in close enough to catch. The subsequent scenes wouldn’t have been quiet so honest between them.**

**_____________________________________  
**

1.) Tobirama pauses at the mention of his name being attributed to another, immediately chiding himself for the gaffe. Fortunately, he’s too consummate a shinobi to let the act fail prematurely. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he recovers smoothly. After all, as far as Madara knows, his clone wouldn’t have been privy to that startling conversation in the glade.

**Tobirama may be a consummate shinobi, but so is Madara. He notices the gaffe immediately. Too, as far as Madara knows, the clones were made after Madara and Tobirama split at the beginning of the hunt. Tobirama’s response implies knowledge of there being _something_ that happened between Madara and Tobirama or another clone after that time – something important enough to ‘think on’. Otherwise he would have immediately asked what it was that required such deep consideration as Madara was implying. Cue plotting Mads. XD**

2.) “I believe this to be the case,” Tobirama replies, catching a strand of Madara’s hair in the current and bringing it up to his lips. The warmth is a balm against his chapped skin.

“Though he also has questions.”

**Chosen route. Tobirama’s nonchalance keeps the game going. Madara still thinks he’s the clone.**

**_____________________________________  
**

1.) “Then why are you so insistent on succeeding in this hunt?”

**“Success” has a different connotation between them. Tobirama views Madara’s ‘success’ as intent to subjugate completely, while Madara views it as winning a chance to turn their physical relationship into a romantic one. He doesn’t care who wears which mark, but Tobirama doesn’t know that. Madara would have responded something to the effect of ‘look at what I would win’ and Tobirama would not have reacted well to the implication.**

2.) “Then why did you all but demand Hunter’s Rights and taunt me with the possibility?”

**Chosen route. By being sharp in his manner, Tobirama’s question demands complete honesty, lest Madara loose the foothold he’s gained. There’s no allowance for things left unsaid.**

**_____________________________________  
**

1.) “Madara,” Tobirama begins, nearly swallowing his words when a rough, callused palm cups his scrotum and traces a line of fire all the way up to his cockhead. “I’m—ah—not a shadow clone,” he manages to hiss, thrusting up into that tight fist. “If I take you here, you will lose.”

**Chosen route. Feels +1000**

2.) “You would wear my claim seal so readily?” Tobirama asks, voice thin with an odd mixture of confusion and arousal. “You would forgo your right as clan head to have me in you?”

**This one didn’t determine anything of import. It would have changed the tone slightly; Madara would have teased Tobirama about trying to obfuscate the truth. Either way, he already knew that Tobirama was the real deal. He did appreciate the verbal honesty, though it’s not like he needed or expected it.**


End file.
